


The Memory of Crimson

by AdmirableMonster (Mertiya)



Series: Kanó- and Nelyo and -Káno [3]
Category: TOLKIEN J. R. R. - Works & Related Fandoms, The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Both of them more or less take on the role of Mae at one point or another, Codependency, Cognitive Dissonance, Comfort Sex, Dissociation, Explicit Consent, Grief/Mourning, I think? i always screw up the definition, Incest, M/M, Mags and Finno need therapy, Memories, Rough Oral Sex, Unhealthy Coping Mechanisms, mild Bdsm elements, trans Maglor
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-23
Updated: 2020-09-23
Packaged: 2021-03-07 17:22:26
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,910
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26621344
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mertiya/pseuds/AdmirableMonster
Summary: Fresh off the Grinding Ice, Findekáno arrives to confront Maitimo.Maitimo isn't there.
Relationships: Fingon | Findekáno/Maglor | Makalaurë, kinda sorta fingon/mae and mags/mae as well
Series: Kanó- and Nelyo and -Káno [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1995166
Comments: 19
Kudos: 57





	The Memory of Crimson

**Author's Note:**

> So--the incest warning is mostly there because Maglor, uhhhh, has some Pretty Explicit Fantasies about Mae, or rather Maitimo, more than for Fingon/Maglor. 
> 
> This was supposed to be rather straightforward Fingon/Maglor comfort sex but then Mags had to go and make it WEIRD. 
> 
> Also, you can blame moiety for Káno/Káno
> 
> Thanks to moiety and akirakurosawa in particular for letting me throw excerpts at them.

Findekáno stood, fidgeting impatiently, outside of Maitimo’s study. He was frustrated and sore—he had ridden hard from his father’s encampment and at every turn circumstances—and people—had conspired to keep him from his destination. He needed answers. He needed Russo. _Why did you leave us_? he would say, fingering the golden ribbons that he still had in his hair. _How could you_? But he also yearned, dizzily, to hold Maitimo in his arms again, to forget in his brilliant warmth the freezing cold of the treacherous ice.

He wasn’t even certain if the guards had recognized him, and perhaps that wasn’t surprising. His rather incoherent demand to see the High King—having heard from someone, that Fëanáro was dead, he couldn’t even remember who—had been met with suspicion and confusion, but now, surely—he’d sent a message, telling them who it was. Russo would let him in. Any moment now—

The door opened. Findekáno shoved past the servant, ignoring whatever they had been about to say, and into a warm study with a roaring fire, with a high bookcase along one wall and—for some reason—a harp and music stand by the door. He halted, heart pounding, as the figure behind the desk stood up. But the firelight reflecting in that hair did not make it shine like crimson flame but only reflected lines of glimmering red along black.

“I…I was told you wanted to see me?” Makalaurë said hesitantly.

~

Oh, Eru, Findekáno was here. What was Findekáno doing here? Maglor had heard the news, of course, that Nolofinwë and his sons had crossed the Helcaraxë finally and reached Beleriand. He had known it—intellectually, and for all of a day so far, and he had had no time to make a decision about how he ought to respond. Apologize? An apology was insufficient, and he was certain half his brothers would call it cowardly. Send an emissary, at least, though—surely he would have to do that. But—oh, none of it mattered now, because there was Findekáno standing on the other side of the chamber, looking angry and fierce and _thin_ —so thin—but with the golden ribbons still shining in his hair.

“No, I wanted to see Maitimo,” Findekáno replied, sounding confused and frustrated all at the same time. “Where is he?”

And it dawned upon Maglor that Findekáno _did not know_. Perhaps he had heard of Fëanáro’s death or perhaps he had only said something that had made the servants assume. It did not matter really. Findekáno had come for Maedhros—for his Maitimo—and he had found only Maedhros’ shadow, only Maglor, who still sometimes stammered when he was called upon to address a crowd outside of a concert, who had a drawer full of useless scribbles, half-formed thoughts and plans for how to rescue someone from Angband, none of them good enough. 

“Leave us,” Maglor told the servant, who withdrew. He rose from his chair and tried to pretend that he was not trembling. The High King of the Noldor should not tremble.

“Where is Maitimo?” Findekáno demanded again, as the door shut, leaving the two of them quite along.

“He—he is not here,” stammered Maglor. His voice sounded suddenly thin and young, as if seeing his cousin had rewound him all the way back to Valinor and he was nothing more than Maitimo’s talented younger brother (if he had ever stopped).

“What do you mean he is not here? Where is he, then?”

Sweet Fingon, eager Fingon, now all sharp edges and rough words. Maglor’s fault, more than Maedhros’s. He could feel the flames of Losgar on his face, and the icy wind at his back. The flames of Fëanor’s words and the ice of realizing that Amrod was still _on_ one of those ships. Pulling him out, burned but living, _thinking_ of losing him—and looking over at the twisted look on Maedhros’s face. Thinking of what he had lost. But now it was _Maedhros—_

“Findekáno—” Maglor choked. “I’m sorry. I am so sorry.” He went to his knees before their childhood friend and took the hem of his cloak in Maglor’s calloused hand. “I will beg your forgiveness for both of us and tell you that Maitimo never turned his back on you. He begged our father not to burn the boats, but none of the rest of us would listen. He was the best of us.”

“ _Was_?” Findekáno’s voice cracked, strained and high.

The unfinished, useless plans in Maglor’s desk mocked him. He knew what role he had to play, but kneeling here in front of Findekáno, old roles battled with the new. He was not the High King; it was only another shadow-puppet he was making for his brothers, the way he used to when they were very little. 

“Káno, look at me.” Finno’s voice had gentled a little. “I need you to tell me. What happened?”

He would look Findekáno in the eye and tell him. There was nothing else he could give him. Maglor summoned all the strength of the High King, all of Maitimo’s bravery, and he turned his chin up to Findekáno. “He was taken by Morgoth soon after we landed.”

Findekáno made a soft, pained noise. “Taken. Then—”

_Oh, my brother. The best of us_. “He has been in Angband since,” Maglor said. “We cannot free him.”

“He _lives_?” Was that hope or horror in Findekáno’s voice? Perhaps both. Maglor could no longer find any room inside himself for hope; there was only guilt and horror.

“He breathes.”

And now Findekáno was sinking to the carpet with Maglor. “And since then you have been leading them. Alone.”

“Pretending to,” Maglor replied, with a dry little laugh. “Some of them believe in my performance more than others.”

“Oh, Káno.”

“I am no one without him, Finno.”

“Neither am I.” And that was patently ridiculous, because Findekáno and Maitimo had always been the two bravest, best of their houses. Makalaurë had comforted Maitimo when they were both younger and he had been pining for beautiful Findekáno. Makalaurë had been _quite_ convinced that no one would ever refuse his adored other brother—and Finno least of all (“he _worships_ you, Nelyo”)—but it had taken so much time for him to engineer the circumstances that led to their mutual confession. And now none of it mattered, because here he was and here Findekáno was, shattered and broken by the Grinding Ice one way or the other, but Maitimo was not here and neither was Maedhros.

“That isn’t true,” Maglor said, in his kingly voice, in his _Nelyo_ voice, and Findekáno rocked backward a little onto his heels. “You are Findekáno Astaldo. You crossed the Helcaraxë. You—”

“Hush, Káno, you fool.” Findekáno put his hand across Maglor’s mouth, and Maglor trembled at the touch. He did not know when the last time someone had touched him was, much less so tenderly. Findekáno sagged. “You don’t know what you’re talking about.”

He sat down on the carpet. “I told myself I was coming here to talk to him,” he said quietly. “I wasn’t, not really. I was coming here for him to comfort me.”

Maglor could not stand to see the way Findekáno’s head slumped over his knees. “You came for him. He tried to wait for you.” He reached out to brush his fingers along Findekáno’s braids. Then, taking a deep breath and reaching for Maitimo’s voice again, “I will comfort you, if you wish it. However you wish it. I owe you more than I can ever repay.”

Findekáno’s dark eyes darted up to his face. “You are not Maitimo.”

“If he is who you need, I will be Maitimo.” He gathered his hair behind his head and gave a crooked smile; he had seen the same small, hopeful smile on his brother’s face countless times.

“No.” Findekáno took his hand. “We both want him. We both need him. If we both seek comfort, let us find comfort together in our shared desire, Makalaurë.”

He leaned forward and put an awkward arm around Maglor’s shoulder and drew him close. Maglor did not resist, pressing his face briefly into Findekáno’s strong shoulder before looking up and then pressing their lips together quickly, nervously—it was what Maitimo would have done, it was what Makalaurë had often wished to do—and now it was what Maglor was doing.

Findekáno deepened the kiss, slowly, lying back and pulling Maglor down on top of him. Their bodies slotted together smoothly, Maglor’s legs falling on either side of Finno’s. Black hair mingled with black, the one running into the other, the edges blurring. Maglor wanted to fall into the past, to pretend, somehow, that he was the one that Findekáno wanted, or—perhaps—

“He could be watching us,” he murmured in Findekáno’s ear. “Look at me, Finno. Can you imagine it?” 

A shuddering groan fell from Findekáno’s parted lips. “Yes.” His hands tightened convulsively on Maglor’s back. “Yes, I—Káno—”

Maglor licked his own lips and imagined Maedhros behind him, out of sight—no. Maitimo. They could be in Valinor, and his older brother could be laughing and saying, _I know you’re not that clumsy, little brother_. Findekáno’s hands landed on Makalaurë’s hips and ground them together, eager and sloppy.

“He’d tell us to slow down,” Makalaurë murmured. “He’d tell us to take our time. He’d tell me to kiss your throat.” He suited action to word and drew his lips down Findekáno’s throat, wringing another needy groan from his cousin’s throat. Findekáno’s hands slipped up his back and Makalaurë arced back into the touch, bringing their clothed groins together. He moaned at the top of his lungs at the sensations. It had been so long since anyone had touched him like this—touched him at all. No. He was Makalaurë, not Maglor.

The memory of Maitimo’s laughter again twisted something inside his stomach. “Do you think he would tell me to take hold of you?” he murmured in Findekáno’s ear.

Finno bit his lip and opened his eyes, nodding fiercely. “Maybe he would tell you to put your beautiful mouth to good use.”

“Yes—yes,” Makalaurë agreed hastily, fumbling with Findekáno’s leggings. He hardly registered how bold he was being, spurred on by Maitimo’s imagined encouragements. _Show him how much you want him_.

Trembling he slid down, peeling off the bottom half of Findekáno’s clothing, and took his erect cock in hand. “Finno,” he murmured. “Look at me. He’d tell you to look at me, watch me take you in my mouth. Watch you disappearing down my throat.” Makalaurë didn’t know if they were his words or Maitimo’s.

Findekáno’s hand twisted in Makalaurë’s hair. “Yes,” he whispered, eyes bright. “Brilliant Káno. Your mouth has always been your greatest talent. Do you think—” He cut himself off with a rough gasp as Makalaurë licked an eager stripe down his cock and then swallowed him whole. He _was_ good at this; he knew he was. Findekáno deserved to know as well.

He loved the feeling of a cock in his mouth, and there was a special thrill in the thought of it being _Findekáno’s_ , beautiful, sweet, brave Finno. “Do you—do you think— _ah—Káno_ —that he would tell me to be gentle, or…or would he tell me—Káno is _strong_ , he can take it?”

Makalaurë shivered, his vision blurring slightly at the thought. He nodded eagerly, bobbing his head up and down, hollowing his cheeks as he sucked at Findekáno’s shaft. “ _Hnnngk_ —do you want me—do you want me to take your mouth, then, Káno? Is that what you what?”

Makalaurë hummed an affirmative, then, realizing that Finno probably wanted to be certain, pulled back for long enough to gasp, “ _Yes_ ,” before going back to what he had been doing. 

“All right, darling.” Findekáno sank his hand into Makalaurë’s hair and twisted his head up. “Hold on then—and hit me if you need me to stop.”

Makalaurë had a moment to whimper softly before Findekáno took a firmer grip on his hair and began to thrust in and out of his mouth with an almost punishing rhythm. Tears sprang to his eyes, and he had to concentrate to slacken his jaw and the muscles of his throat.

_You’re doing so well,_ Maitimo might have said, in his most caring voice. He would put a hand on Makalaurë’s back, steadying him, a mirror to Finno’s firm hand on his head. 

“Káno— _aaaah—_ you feel so good—” Finno panted. He was moving Makalaurë’s head up and down, and Makalaurë was floating, suspended, cut off and dizzy, with nothing but Findekáno before him, Findekáno’s knees around him, Findekáno’s cock _inside him_ —

If Maitimo had been there, he might have taken pity on his little brother, who had no stimulation between his legs other than the occasional brush of fabric from the jolting motion of his body under Findekáno’s motions. But there was no respite, no large, long-fingered hand to slip between his thighs and bring him off. Makalaurë wondered if that made it better or worse, to be so wholly at the mercy of his brother’s lover.

“ _Nnnn_ —Káno—I’m—” Findekáno gasped, yanking Makalaurë right down almost to the floor as he came down his throat. Makalaurë whined softly at the pulse of Findekáno’s cock inside him, swallowing his seed and then waiting patiently for Findekáno to withdraw. He heard Finno’s rough, panting breaths start to ease, and Findekáno’s hand began to stroke his hair, in long gentle motions, combing out the twists he had left clutching at it.

Makalaurë looked up at him through blurred, teary vision, not moving until Findekáno moved him, slipping out from between his lips and then patting his thighs encouragingly. “Come here, Makalaurë.” His lips quirked slightly. “Little cousin.”

“Yes.” Makalaurë obeyed immediately, and Findekáno put his arms about him and pulled him into his lap, slotting Makalaurë’s back against Findekáno’s front. 

“You’re so _small_ ,” Finno told him, a little wonderingly.

“I’m not particularly—” Makalaurë paused. “I mean, compared to Nelyo…”

Findekáno laughed into his neck and then bit it. Makalaurë moaned. “Please—Fin—de— _káno_ —”

“I thought _you_ were Káno,” whispered his cousin. There was a hand on Káno’s inner thigh.

“I— _please_ —’Káno—” Everything seemed to be blurring, from Makalaurë to the sweet memory of Maitimo watching, to the strong arms of his cousin about him, all of it concentrated on the strength at his back and the hand slipping up his thighs. “ _Please_ —”

“Lift your hips for me, beautiful.” Who had said that? Káno or Nelyo or Káno?

“Yes, yes—anything—yes—” He managed to get his hips up, and felt those clever hands—how many hands?—pulling down his nether clothing. 

“Lean back against me. I’ve got you.” 

Káno let his head fall back against the shoulder behind him, let himself be held, gasped as one of those hands finally _finally_ slipped between his legs, touching him where he was aching. “ _Ahhhh—ahhhh—yes—please—_ ”

Heat and pleasure spiked inside him at the feeling of that hand on him, driving him upwards and onwards, chasing an intensity he hadn’t felt like this in so many years— _No_. Just—too long. It peaked and peaked inside him, twisting him and drawing breathy gasps and groans from his throat, and it _hurt_ —was he crying again?—but he couldn’t—he couldn’t—

“Let go, sweetheart,” a voice murmured in his ear. “I’ve got you.”

_Nelyo_?

White heat surged across him, and he heard Káno’s voice crying out. His muscles seemed to dissolve as he melted back into the strong grasp at his back.

“Well, you went down hard, didn’t you, little cousin?” 

“Mmmmm. Hold me.” He wasn’t sure if the words were coherent, but the arms pulled him close, lips in his hair.

“Thank you,” Findekáno whispered. “For…whatever this was.” Makalaurë nuzzled at his neck, curling up against him. “For letting me hold you. For letting me—” He cut himself off.

“S’a rug by the fire. We could lie down,” Makalaurë mumbled.

“Let’s.” There was some motion, and then they were on the soft rug, and Makalaurë’s head was on Finno’s shoulder, and he could twine their fingers together as he shut his eyes. He could feel Finno’s naked legs tangled with his. Warm and unmoored, he drifted.

~

Maglor woke to find himself shivering even within the warm cloak tucked tightly about his shoulders. With a groan, he sat up, trying to figure out why he was lying in front of the banked, cold fireplace, for all intents and purposes quite alone. Judging from the odd, cold feeling between his legs, he’d had an—intense dream. 

Shakily, he stood up and staggered over to his desk, only to find that there was a hastily scrawled note in the center of it, weighted down with the inkwell, and Maglor recognized the handwriting immediately.

_I have gone to get him back. I swear when you see me next it will be both of us in truth. – Your Káno_

Maglor stared at it with blank incomprehension. He looked down. Still wrapped around his shoulders was Findekáno’s cloak.

He had walked all the way across the Grinding Ice, only to leave his cloak tucked tightly about Maglor’s shoulders. “Oh, you fool,” Maglor said, dropping into the chair in front of his desk and burying his face in his hands. “Oh, you fool.”


End file.
